Blood Ties
by Mebrireth
Summary: The night when Christian types 'The end'. He soon discovers a new way to be closer to his beloved diamond...FINISHED!!!!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. I don't own anything that somebody else thought of, even if I like to think otherwise. Have pity on a poor, penniless writer. Review please, and I will love you till the end of time!  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Christian watched numbly as the words "The end" appeared on the page above his typing fingertips. For the first time in a long while, his fingers stopped moving. He sat back, running his hands through his disheveled hair. He was done. Satine's story was completed. Everything that had happened to her, to them, was there. Every thought, every ounce of love he had had, was put into a stack of paper.  
  
And now there was nothing left.  
  
Christian stood and walked stiffly over to the small bed that made up the bulk of his décor. He fell haphazardly across it and threw his arm over his eyes, blocking out the room even though it was dark and no light shone in through the windows. The Moulin Rouge facing the window was deserted, empty, and it matched his own feelings perfectly.  
  
His only purpose had been the story, getting it all out and down onto paper, for that had been her last request. 'Write a story, that way I'll always be with you.' Well the story was finished, and she still was not with him.  
  
He had believed her, thought that the familiarity of the type-writer would bring him comfort, would actually make her seem alive again for the moments spent writing about her. But the writing had only stirred vague memories, and she was still as dead as she had been in those months before he had even thought of touching the type-writer.  
  
Christian groaned and turned onto his side. A year had passed by, a whole year, and he could still do nothing but think about her, his precious diamond. The immediate days following her death, he thought he himself would die simply from the grief. There was no way a person could feel that much pain and live. But he had been assured by friends that the feelings would dim, and he would be able to live again. And just as he had believed her, he had believed them. Now he was here, in the same tiny room, across the same dance hall, a whole year later, and he still felt the pain.  
  
He could not deny it, it had diminished somewhat, to the point where he could at least draw a breath without conscious effort, but that was as far as it went. His very soul was in agony, so much so that he cared nothing about the exterior of his body.  
  
Friends had been the only thing keeping him alive after that day, feeding him, talking to him, trying to raise his spirits with inane babble about Heaven's kingdoms and possibility of reunion. But he had left them, only to come back to the one spot where he was closest to her memory, and closest to the pain.  
  
'He had waited.and now the sitar-player felt the cold stab of jealousy'. He remembered writing those words, incorporating it into the play that had been an exact mirror of their relationship. He even remembered feeling those words. And at the time, he had thought that that was the worst he could ever feel. A grim smile cracked the poet's lips, for he longed for that kind of pain now. That was nothing compared to this.  
  
'Seasons may change, Winter to Spring, but I love you, until the end of time.'. They had not known how soon that end of time would come. The lovers' secret song did little to soothe him now.  
  
With another groan of pain through clenched teeth, Christian pulled himself up and went to the window. He unconsciously took up the same position in the same spot he had always taken when waiting for some sign of her. His eyes swept out over the dark and ruined portion of the city his window faced. He saw the club, the elephant, the windmill, all of it. That had been her domain, the place where she had been the star. Ruined, dead after she had died. Appropriately fitting.  
  
With some effort, Christian made himself turn away from the ruined setting. There was no point in watching for her now, she would never come. Christian took a step away from the window, and that was as far as he made it. His knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor, tears flowing down his cheeks as he clenched his jaw to keep the sobs in. No more, he could not possibly have anymore tears to give. But apparently he did.  
  
Christian strove to get up, his hands grabbing onto the desk for the support. He grabbed the bottle of Absinthe he had left beside the type- writer. He raised it to his lips, wanting the mind-numbing promises it provided. But it was empty. With a cry, the poet let the bottle fly and it smashed against the opposite wall. In a blind haze, Christian staggered about, looking for something, anything, to dull the pain.  
  
Before, he had had his friends to turn to, and then the type-writer after that. But now there was nothing. He was alone, the story was finished, and Satine was still not with him. The pain grew, relishing on his soul like it had finally gotten past the flood gates. Nothing was here to stop it now.  
  
Not even fully realizing what he was doing, Christian found himself in the tiny bathroom of his chambers. He did not bother with a light, only let his hand grope blindly on the sink. His hand encountered something, and he grasped at it. With what was left of his rational mind, he realized that he was holding his long-neglected razor. A thought entered his mind, and he switched on the naked bulb that swung above his head.  
  
He stared at himself in the small and cracked mirror. Satine had never been too fond of beards. Without even bothering with soap, Christian began to shave off the overgrown beard. It took some time and effort, but it also helped occupy his mind, keep his thoughts free of the pain.  
  
Christian took the last few strokes of the blade, working on the underside of his chin. He started when he felt the blade find a yielding spot in his skin and he lowered his arm and craned his neck to properly see in the mirror.  
  
Blood began to well out of the small cut, and then sluggishly cut a path down his throat. Christian had already turned on the faucet to wash it off, but he made no move for the clean water coming forth. Instead, he watched the red trail transfixed, his fingers moving to touch it. He then looked at his red-stained fingers, and felt a slow smile spread across his face. Finally, this was something that they could both share. Satine had been drowning in blood those last days of her life, allowing it to stain her mouth and lips. Now Christian too could let his own flow of its own volition.  
  
What do ya think? Should I write more or leave it at that? 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Wow, thanks guys for all the great reviews! So due to popular demand, here you go, and I think I will do more chapters, whether it becomes an epic or not is still undecided. And I don't own any that does not belong to me, yadda yadda.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
Christian finished off what little was left of his beard, not even trying to be careful, but no more cuts were made. He found that he was slightly disappointed about that. Instead, he continued to watch the blood from the original cut, the same red fluid that had destroyed his Satine. Her blood had turned against her, filling her lungs and drowning her from the inside.  
  
As Christian watched the blood flow slowly, he grew angrier. Blood was essential to life, yet it had killed his Satine. And at the same time, had killed a part of him. He had died with her, only he was forced to stay here. Stay on this wretched plane where her very memory filled him with anguish, but at the same time, the thought of forgetting about her filled him with terror. It was a vicious and sadistic cycle that he only wished to break. And there seemed to be only one way to do that.  
  
He had of course contemplated suicide before. Ending his life so that he may try to follow his diamond to the ends of the earth. But that did not seem right, because he had promised her. He would write her story for her. But the story was done, and he was empty. His purpose was completed.  
  
That had been the only thing keeping him alive, the thought of her and doing as she wished. Now he felt he had paid his dues. A year had passed, the pain had not lessened, and he was done with the story. There was nothing left for him here, all he ever wanted since he had met her was to be with Satine, and the feelings had not faded. After a full year of grief, it was still there, and he knew that that was the only thing that would ever make him happy again.  
  
Christian stared back down at the razor still gripped in his hand. The blade was dulled, but still sharp enough to do anything that he would want. All he had to do was make his decision and follow the part of his soul that had gone with her.  
  
He raised his hand, the razor catching a small spark from the harsh bulb. He hesitated with it over his wrist, his eyes staring back into himself through the mirror. Every thing that he knew was telling him to follow Satine, that there was no point in remaining without her. Yet something still held him back. As much as he wanted to just be with her, he also felt unreasonably guilty about it. 'You've got to go on Christian.' That had been one of her last words as well, another request.  
  
Christian struggled with himself while still watching his own eyes in the mirror. Part of him wanted to follow her every word that had been said, and part of him reasoned that he had already fulfilled that part of the request. He had gone on as long as was necessary, nothing more could be asked of him.  
  
After a brief hesitation, Christian instead raised the razor with a slightly shaking hand to his forearm. It was not a vital spot, and he would then thus not be disobeying any of Satine's wishes, so he told himself. With a quick motion, he cut into the pale flesh, leaving a vicious streak down the length of his forearm.  
  
There was pain of course, but Christian reveled in it. It took him away from the pain caused by the grief over Satine. He was able to concentrate on the physical pain rather than the emotional agony. He watched simply as the blood found its way out of the new release and spilled over down his arm. It was fascinating really. He would not let his own blood do what it had done to Satine, it would not stay in him to kill him discreetly from the inside. He would let it out, and punish it that way.  
  
After the single cut, he decided he was satisfied and put the razor down. The blood continued to roll out, but he did not bother to bind it or even wash it. He did not care enough to do anything beneficial about it.  
  
Christian left the tiny bathroom and turned off the light, sending the rest of his garret into darkness. He took a few steps out of the bathroom and then stopped, listening intently to his own thoughts. Something was different, terribly different, and he was not sure of what it was, or whether he would like it. Change had come to mean to be something he was not fond of, for it could the life of his only love.  
  
It took some time before he finally realized that for the first time in a whole year, he was content. The change was a good thing. He was following Satine's wishes and also releasing himself of some pain. He was not happy, he did not think he could ever feel that again, but the pain had been suspended, and he could breathe without it hurting. That was enough for him. He had found a new way to cherish his Satine. They would both die by way of blood. 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, how could I have possibly come up with it? So I don't claim to own brilliance that is not mine, I only write with these characters due to lack of creativity, and because I absolutely love Moulin Rouge! So here's more for you, and I think this will be a small epic, so don't worry about me drawing out poor Christian's pain.  
  
Chapter 3  
  
Morning came, as it usually did, and the sun's rays disturbed Christian out of his fitful sleep. The poet opened his eyes slowly, and just for a second, his heart leapt. Because just for a second, as he always did when he first awoke, he forgot. Just for a second, everything was as it had been, and he would turn to find Satine beside him, asleep and ready to be awakened. And just for a second, every morning, he was happy.  
  
But after that second, reality came crashing down, and Christian would sit up and look around his miserable room. The abandoned windmill loomed outside the window as it always did, its many light bulbs either shattered or missing, and he could see the dejected elephant standing just behind it. A less than encouraging sight.  
  
Like every morning, Christian struggled with the mere thought of getting out of bed. Of going about life's daily activities like everyone else, of trying to act like nothing was wrong, trying to act like one of them. Perhaps this was why he stayed in this same room. The pitiful sight of the dead Moulin Rouge reminded him. He did not want to be like all the others, those who say a year is more than enough time to get over his mourning and grief. Those who said life is a gift, live it to the fullest. No, of all things that could possibly happen, he did not want to become like them. He would remember his Satine when all others had forgotten, or made themselves forget.  
  
After a very brief debate, Christian let his head fall back on the single pillow and willed himself to fall asleep. His dreams were the only place where he might see Satine. Sometimes, he dreamed of her as they had been, and sometimes he dreamed of what might have been. Both painful to wake up from of course, but better than being awake at all. Lately though, he was not remembering his dreams, and that scared him. He did not want to miss any form of opportunity to be with his love, his heart. So Christian willed himself to sleep, and willed himself to remember all that would happen to him in his sleep.  
  
Sleep was not merciful. Christian lay on the bitter brink of sleep and stayed there. He was not allowed to fall back asleep, life was demanding that he get up and conform, act like all the others, pretend Satine meant nothing to him now. He was not willing to obey.  
  
After another half hour of fighting to fall back into the abyss of unconsciousness, Christian finally raised himself off of the bed. He went to the type-writer where it sat on his desk and started to sit down until he remembered. He had finished the story, there was nothing for him there. He could try to write something, but he knew no inspiration would come, if it would ever come again. He had the worst form of writer's block, mainly because it was voluntary. He was not going to fight it, because then that would mean he actually cared about something else. And above all else, he did not care.  
  
Christian rubbed his arm absently as he looked out the window and stopped at a sudden twinge of pain. He looked down at his arm, and saw the fresh scar there. He suddenly remembered what he had done last night, the razor in the bathroom and the indecision on whether to do it or not. He had not been sure if it had been a dream or not, but obviously it had been real. But then Christian remembered something else. He remembered the feeling after he had stepped out of the small bathroom. Or rather, he remembered the lack of feeling, something that was much more preferable than what he had been feeling as of late. He would rather feel nothing at all than to feel the mental pain and agony that had been his perpetual state of mind. In fact, he had almost been in a state of contentment, another emotion that had not been felt since Satine had died that horrible night.  
  
So it was no problem to think of which way he would prefer to feel. Christian went for the door leading to the bathroom, straight to the razor that could promise momentary deliverance. It had taken the place of his usual absinthe, and offered even better rewards. For one could always die from alcohol poisoning, but it was more likely to pass out before that happen. When blood was involved, one could die at any moment, as he had learned from Satine. This way, he would not be disobeying Satine and killing himself forthright, he would let the blood do it. All he would do is give it a little help.  
  
The razor was gripped in his hand before he even fully realized it, and had already began to travel the course towards the exposed skin on his arm. This time, he went for neither the wrist nor the upper forearm, but towards the vulnerable flesh in the middle of his arm. He selected a crease that ran across several blue veins and then cut along the lines. It was easy this way, for he had a course to follow. It was almost like grade- school when one was encouraged to follow along the lines to form letters or words, and just as easy.  
  
The pain was sharper than it had been last night, as he had chosen a more sensitive spot, but Christian literally just grinned and bore it. He stopped his hand when he had dragged the blade along the whole length of the crease and waited to watch the blood roll out. It was not a long wait as he had sliced veins and the blood had started to show almost immediately, but now it came out in a much greater force. A red current that broke through all normal boundaries and took its time in spreading out. The blood moved almost lazily, searching out and resting in every imperfection in his skin before rolling off his arm and splattering onto the floor. A small pool began to gather at Christian's feet, and he found that that was just as interesting as the blood-work on his arm.  
  
Christian put the razor down, thinking he should take it slow, one step at a time, dragging it out just as Satine's eminent death had lingered. He would be even closer this way. He already knew his sentence, his fate was sealed, and it was the same as Satine's. He would go through everything she had gone through before being able to finally see her again. Or at least he hoped he would be able to see her again. 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Last time I checked, nothing involving Moulin Rouge was mine, and it still aint so. Here's some more angst for you, hehe, and I think I finally decided the actual length of the story. Of course I'm not going to tell you, lol, so just read and enjoy and review and all will be happy!  
  
Chapter 4  
  
The blood continued to flow, and showed no signs of slowing. Which was not a problem for Christian. But the blood on the floor started to disturb him. The pool became larger, expanding slowly and inexorably. It would create a mess.  
  
Christian went for a towel that hung on the inside of his bathroom door. He threw it down on the floor and pressed it down with his foot. Yet he soon realized that it would do no good, for the blood was continuing to drip from his arm. So with feelings of regret, he finally grabbed a smaller towel and pressed it against the open wound. He did not want to stop the flow of blood, but he also did not want to cause a mess on the floor, one that could drip through the floorboards and even into the room below his. The building had never been constructionally sound.  
  
Just when he thought maybe the blood would never stop, it slowed and the wound began to coagulate and close. When his arm had stopped dripping, he finished cleaning it off the floor. Christian bent down and wiped the crimson pool up with the towel, then straightened. As he did so, he felt a wave of dizziness and was actually forced to his knees. Christian had to take a few deep breaths before he could even attempt to get up again. When he finally felt he could stand without falling over, he rose slowly, taking his time and not even wanting to rush.  
  
He went back into the dingy bathroom, throwing the two bloodied towels into the sink. He stopped over the sink, gripping it with both of his hands, and discovering he had to fight to catch his breath. With a feeling of reluctance, Christian raised his head and glanced into the cracked mirror placed over the sink. His face was extremely pale. So much so that he surprised even himself.  
  
His eyes had huge dark rings underneath it, creating a huge and frightening contrast to the pallor of his skin. His lips were bloodless and shaking, though he was not aware of it until he saw them doing so. His body felt very weak, and he was suddenly aware that all he wanted to do was lay down. A feeling he was willing to comply with.  
  
Christian stumbled out of the bathroom, marveling again at the weakness that had come over him. He was not clear as to why he felt so terrible all of a sudden, but again, he had no problem with it. He would most definitely rather feel terrible, both mentally and physically. For if he was happy, he always felt guilty for it. Satine was not happy, could not be happy, and she was not healthy. So his grim state provided a measure of comfort, and it took away the guilt.  
  
Christian reached the bed after what seemed like an absurd amount of time and flopped down onto it. As soon as he was down, he realized that he was very cold and shaking. And that thought of course only brought back a grim flash. 'I'm cold, Christian, I'm cold, I'm cold, hold me, hold me.' He had not been able to warm Satine. She had wanted him to, but he had failed her there as well. That only meant that he himself was not deserving of warmth, and he left the blanket his hand had been automatically straying to at the end of the bed. Why should he be warm when Satine had not been?  
  
The young poet closed his eyes, but instead of the comforting darkness, he instead felt nausea well up within him, competing with the dizziness that would not go away even though he was lying down. He could not even try to still the shaking now even if he wanted to, and the coldness wrapped around him, making his clothes seem obsolete. His mouth felt unforgivably dry, but the very thought of getting up to get a drink was impossible.  
  
Christian did nothing to try and stop the affects his body was going to, nor did he have any desire to do so. He felt like he was on the brink of death, and that was the only thing he did want. On an impulse, Christian opened his eyes to a slit and glanced at his arm. The new wound was a livid purple color; an ugly gash set against his unnaturally white skin. Maybe he truly was dying. Good. 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: No, I don't own it!!! Though I would severely like to own Christian, but that's another story..  
  
Author's Note: Here's the last little bit. I hoped you liked my story, it was fun, lol.  
  
Chapter 5  
  
Christian continued to shake uncontrollably, his breath hitching in his throat, making it difficult to even breathe. He was steadily growing colder, and he watched the skin on his arm through glazed eyes grow steadily whiter. He could hardly feel his fingertips or toes, and something told him that it would be next to impossible to try and move them. His body was no longer his to command.  
  
The cold became so unbearable that Christian finally pulled on the blanket with numbed fingers and gripped it beneath his throat. He could feel his pulse picking up speed, his heart trying to frantically beat blood that was not there. Even with the blanket on, the coldness seeped inside of him, chilling his veins and making his insides feel like ice. It was quite painful.  
  
Christian dragged in breath after breath, and his vision swam in front of him. He began to laugh deliriously. He was convinced he was dying, something that was purely fine with him. He picked up his arm enough so that he could see the livid gash in the crease of his arm, it had opened again and was bleeding sluggishly. He hoped it was slow because the blood was running out, he wanted as much of the deceitful liquid out of him as possible.  
  
The young poet began to cough, which made the laughter rise up again. This was perfect, he would go just like Satine had. The coughing became worse, racking his entire body painfully. His head jerked, making the dizziness swell up in full force. It was a while before he could focus bloodshot eyes. But when he did, his breath stopped again. This time, however, it was totally voluntary. For something had been caught in the corner of his eye.  
  
It was a vision of some sort, but one that he did not want to believe. If he gave into it, he did not think he would be able to handle the rush of emotions. So he merely watched, not letting his eyes waver, but not wanting to allow himself to do anymore.  
  
But the apparition did not disappear, and Christian was convinced he was losing his mind. The final insult to a dying man. Then it moved. Towards him. Christian shivered violently, but mostly due to the emotions swirling inside of him. Then he lay still, holding his breath, not wanting to blink, for if he lost this vision he would die from pure grief.  
  
The figure was right next to his bed now, staring down at him with infinitely sad eyes. The expression made Christian feel his heart was breaking while simultaneously being overwhelmed with feelings of guilt. Then it spoke, in that sweet voice that he had sworn he would never hear again, "You promised."  
  
Two words, combined with the look on Satine's face, made Christian's eyes well up immediately with tears. Yet they were not tears of joy, but of tortured grief. The clear-blue eyes of the Satine vision strayed down to his arm, to the recent gashes, and she sighed. Christian was ashamed.  
  
"I can't go on without you," Christian tried to explain, his voice breaking.  
  
"But you won't be with me!" Satine's eyes were distressed and her mouth quivered with the effort to maintain composure. "You will not be with me if you go out this way," she whispered, turning her head away and closing her eyes.  
  
Christian had the feeling of a million razors shredding his insides, and his heart was sinking. He also noted the now familiar feeling of cold and numbness, and fear washed through him.  
  
"Satine," he whispered, his voice desperate and breaking, "I'm sorry, I want to be with you, now I've ruined it." Tears spilled down his cheeks, but these were now out of fear. He felt his heart continue to skip and his skin grow in pallor. He was dying, and he would not be with Satine. Murderers did not reign with the innocent.  
  
Christian panicked, "I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry, I love you, I wanted to be with you, now I've destroyed that." He held out a hand weakly in her direction, wanting to at least touch her one last time. His blood- shot eyes were tortured, and he felt as though his soul was already being sucked down into Hell. Satan was waiting for him for sure, ready to make him suffer.  
  
Satine turned back to Christian, her clear eyes locked on the poet's blue eyes, which were already starting to glaze over. Her own ghostly eyes filled with sparkling tears, shining down her cheeks as they dropped. She stepped closer to him, but carefully avoided his desperately seeking hand. "I can help you," she whispered, "but I cannot help you with your pain, you have to continue alone until your time comes." It was a way out, but she was not wholly sure he would take it.  
  
Christian fought to breathe. "Go on living alone without you." He closed his eyes and dropped his hand, his body convulsing. Satine was alarmed, he looked as though he was too far gone or ready to give up. He drew in a shuddering breath that was painful just to hear and pried his eye- lids back open. His only sight was for the figure in front of him, waiting with that pained look marring her beautiful face. His heart broke for her pain more than his own, he never wanted to cause her to look like that.  
  
Christian drew in one more breath, "I need your help," he whispered. His eyes slammed back shut and his entire body relaxed. But that was all Satine had needed. She had been permitted to come back and help out this once, as long as it was of his own volition. Satine bent and kissed Christian's cold and bloodless lips. She lingered on his lips, allowing her breath to warm them. At the first touch, Christian's eyes cracked open, and his lips turned up ever so slightly. Then he knew no more.  
  
When the young poet awoke, the sun was shining again. But for the first time, he was actually pleased to see it. He sat up slowly, the blankets falling off of him. He felt like he had to recall something, but was not sure what. Christian scratched at his arm absently and stopped when his fingers encountered a ridge. He glanced and then stared at the scar running along the inside of his arm. The events of last night came back to him in a rush, and he was stunned by the tidal wave of emotions the memories provoked.  
  
Quickly, he searched the room for any sign of his beloved, though he knew she would not be there. The familiar grief started to rise through him, but he stopped it. All he had to do was get through this life, then they could be together always. He finally understood.  
  
Christian got up out of bed and went to his type-writer. He sat down and looked at the manuscript of the Moulin Rouge sitting next to it. He glanced at the last lines he had written. 'A love that will live forever.' It was true, and Christian smiled.  
  
The End 


End file.
